Crystal Clear
by Mandelene
Summary: Alfred's notorious for breaking his glasses in freak accidents, and frankly, Dr. Arthur Kirkland, his father and ophthalmologist, is sick of it. Convincing the boy to get laser eye surgery to permanently correct his vision certainly won't be an easy task, but if anyone's going to do it, it's going to have to be him. (Two-shot)
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Two updates in the course of two days? I'm spoiling you guys, haha. But you all deserve it. This story was requested a long time ago by an anon on my Tumblr. It's going to be a two-shot, most likely, unless you guys want me to end it here. Let me know what you want to see next and how you want me to torture Alfred from this point on! :D

Before I get started, I just want to clear up any confusion about what the difference is between an ophthalmologist, optometrist, and an optician. Ophthalmologists are trained M.D.s who have gone to medical school, specialized in ophthalmology, and finished a residency program. They can perform eye surgery, diagnose diseases of the eye, prescribe medication and corrective lenses, perform eye exams—essentially everything.

Optometrists are second in line. They aren't medical doctors and can't perform eye surgery, but they've been trained to treat some diseases of the eye, can give eye exams, and can prescribe corrective lenses.

Opticians are at the bottom. They're not doctors, they can't diagnose or treat disease, and they can't perform vision tests or prescribe you any corrective lenses or medication. All they do is fit you for your glasses/contact lenses using the prescription you've gotten from either your optometrist/ophthalmologist.

If you can't remember the differences, just remember that the longer their title is and the harder it is to spell, the more they can do, haha. I hope that clears some things up. I've written Arthur as an ophthalmologist here, so he's a medical doctor who can do a bunch of fun stuff, notably LASIK eye surgery.

Without further ado, enjoy! And I would greatly appreciate it if you could take the time to leave a review (good or bad, all feedback is welcome)!

* * *

"Where are my—?"

 _CRACK._

"Darn!"

The eighth-grade American history class Alfred is substitute teaching for snickers at his expense, amused by his clumsiness. Somehow, his glasses managed to slide down his nose and fall to the ground as he was leaning down to pick up a piece of chalk. Once he was feeling around for them on the floor, he stepped on them, and now, he has to gently cradle the destroyed frames in his palms and think about how Dad is going to scold him for mistreating his glasses yet again.

He's only been home for six months now, living with his parents while he pays off the rest of his student loan debt so he can eventually go apartment hunting, and since then, he's already ruined his third pair of glasses. The poor things keep meeting consecutive unfortunate demises.

On the bright side, or dark side, depending on how you look at it, his dad's an ophthalmologist, which means there's hope for his abysmal eyesight. Dad's been trying to convince him to get LASIK eye surgery for nearly a year now, but Alfred's too much of a chicken when it comes to medical procedures to agree to it. He's seen the YouTube videos people have posted online of their own surgeries, and _no thank you_. He'd rather wear glasses for the rest of his life than put himself through that horror.

But now that he's broken his frames yet again, he's going to have to endure a visit to his father's office anyway to get a new prescription and to make sure his vision hasn't deteriorated before he scrounges up the money for a new pair.

Man, what a bother.

He's going to have to teach twenty-five kids while blind. Great. What else is new? Is that Jessica sitting in the third seat in the second row or Nicole? He can't tell. Everything is too blurry.

"Umm…Would any of you kids happen to have some tape?" he sheepishly asks his class, flushing bright red.

"I do, Mr. Jones."

"Thanks, Mikey."

"I'm not Mikey. I'm Jason."

"Right, of course. Sorry, pal, and thanks."

The roll of tape gets placed in his hand, and Alfred attempts to repair his glasses to the best of his mediocre ability so he can at least get around until the final bell of the day. He secures three layers of tape around the bridge of the frames, and that helps, but he can't do much about the large crack in the left lens.

He's pretty sure he looks ridiculous, but the class is surprisingly sympathetic and sweet about it. No one laughs, though he expects someone to.

"Right…Let's get back to talking about Teddy Roosevelt, okay?"

* * *

Straight after his last class of the day, Alfred walks himself to his father's office, embarrassed and ashamed as he steps through the door and ambles over to the receptionist. Something about the plaque outside that reads _Arthur Kirkland, M.D., Ophthalmology_ always intimidates him a little.  
 _  
It's just Dad. Relax._

"Hey, Steph. Think you can fit me in for today?" he asks as he reaches the front desk, poorly mended glasses still crookedly perched on his nose.

"Oh, Alfred. Again?" the receptionist sighs before consulting a long list of appointments. She makes a noise of disapproval, but then adds, "You know there's always time for you."

"You're the best."

"I know, thanks," she jokes, signing him in. "Take a seat and grab a magazine. There are three patients ahead of you."

"Okay, no problem."

"How's teaching going?"

"It's okay," Alfred says as he makes himself comfortable on the nearby couch once he takes off his coat. "The pay and the hours are bad, but I'm getting experience, so hopefully, I'll find something more full-time soon."

"I'm sure it'll all work out."

"Yeah, it just takes time," he agrees, flipping through a magazine on dessert recipes for the holidays.

Several minutes later, Dad comes out to call the next patient, and as he's doing so, he locks eyes with Alfred and frowns but doesn't say anything. His father will have plenty of time to lecture him later, and Papa will probably give him a bonus chiding when he gets home tonight.

Alfred watches as Dad disappears again with another patient and lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"When are they gonna come up with a magic pill to fix nearsightedness, Steph?" he asks.

The receptionist rolls her eyes, types something rapidly into the computer, and says, "Just get the surgery, Alfred. It's not that bad."

"Easy for you to say, Mrs. Twenty-Twenty Vision."

"Fine, stay stubborn. I would expect this from anyone but you. Your father is an ophthalmologist for crying out loud! Let him do his job. He's good at what he does, and you know it. What's there to be afraid of?"

"I could go blind forever."

"Oh—I'm not going to have this conversation again. If Dr. Kirkland can't get through to you, no one can."

And so, their chat ends there. Alfred sulks and pretends to be interested in a cinnamon puff recipe, when, in reality, he's sweating and panicking at the mere thought of surgery. He can't do it. He _wants_ to, but he _can't_.

"Alfred?" Dad calls out from around the corner.

Showtime. That was quick. Nervously, Alfred gets off the couch, drops the magazine, and tries to act cool as he approaches his father. If the man even mentions the word _surgery_ , he might lose consciousness.

Dad leads him into the examination room, shuts the door behind them with a small click, and watches as Alfred seats himself in the exam chair.

"This is the _third_ time, Alfred," is the first thing he says.

"I know. I'm sorry. They fell, and I accidentally stepped on them."

"How did you manage such a feat?"

"I don't know."

Dad sighs, comes over to stand next to him, and carefully removes his broken glasses from his face, inspecting them. Then, he rolls one of his fancy machines over to where he's sitting, dims the lights, and says, "Lean forward and put your chin on the white headrest. Look straight at the picture in the lens."

"Yeah, I know. Been through this a few times now," Alfred says, trying to act tough and mature, but honestly, his heartrate is sky high. He hates all doctors, and while he can tolerate Dad to a certain extent, he still isn't a fan of anything the man does.

"Relax, now. The computer is going to take some measurements," Dad hums as the picture Alfred is looking at turns blurry, crystal clear, and then blurry again. The machine makes a series of clicking noises, and finally, Dad says, "Good. You can sit back."

Dad prints out the results and compares them to the previous measurements in Alfred's chart from a few months ago. "Well, once again, it doesn't seem as though your prescription has changed."

Then, he pulls down another machine. This time, it's the funny looking device that resembles a pair of big binoculars. He flips some switches so that lenses matching Alfred's prescription are placed in front of his eyes. Then, he covers Alfred's left eye and says, "Look at the chart of letters ahead of you. What's the smallest line you can read? Don't squint…Alfred, I can see you squinting. What did I just say? Don't try to lean forward either. Sit back."

"Umm, sorry…Second line from the bottom."

"Okay, read it aloud for me."

"F, E, L, O, D, Z…and that's either a P or another F."

"Okay," is all Dad says before switching something again. "Is that better, worse, or about the same?"

Alfred _really_ hates this. Too many questions, and frankly, he can't always tell what's better or what's worse. "Uhh, uhh…About the same."

"Okay, other eye now."

Dad covers his right eye this time and tells him to read the smallest line he can again.

"Same line as last time. I see the P now," he notes.

"Your left eye is a bit stronger than your right eye," Dad tells him, switching the lenses again before asking the same question. "Better, worse, or about the same?"

"About the same. Maybe a little better."

Dad nods, pulls the funny binoculars away from his face, and brings out an otoscope. He turns the light on and instructs, "Look straight ahead. I'm going to make sure you don't have an infection or signs of other problems that may be worrisome."

The light stings, but Alfred does his best to hold still as Dad checks one eye and then the next.

"Look at me now…Good. Everything looks fine, aside from the fact that you should seriously consider getting LASIK eye surgery, of course."

 _There he goes again._

"No, I already told you I can't do it."

"And why not? You're a good candidate for it—your eyes are otherwise healthy, your prescription has been stable, and you're young but not so young that your eyes haven't fully developed. Just think, one hour in the office and you'll never have to worry about vision problems again," Dad insists as he turns off the light of his otoscope and stows it in one of the pockets of his white coat.

Alfred shudders and shakes his head. "What if your hand slips, and I go blind?"

"The actual correction of the cornea is done by a computer-controlled laser, so my hands have nothing to do with it at that point. The chance of vision complications is very low, especially nowadays," Dad tries to reassure him, taking a seat on a rolling stool next to the exam chair.

"I don't know…My glasses have become part of who I am—they're my identity, you know?"

Dad shrugs his shoulders. "I can't make you get the surgery. You're an adult, and therefore, I can only make a recommendation as your doctor. It's not vital to maintaining your health, so it's a choice that's entirely up to you."

Alfred twiddles his thumbs anxiously and mumbles, "You're not telling Mattie to get surgery."

"Your brother is farsighted, so he's not required to wear his glasses for the majority of the day. Furthermore, his prescription hasn't stabilized, therefore, his situation is entirely different."

It's tempting, really. Paying for new glasses every time he breaks them isn't fun.

"If I get the surgery, will I have to wear those ugly sunglasses you always see people wearing in the movies?"

"Yes, but only for the first few days. You would be able to resume your daily activities about forty-eight hours after the procedure if your eyes heal properly. That said, full recovery from the surgery takes about two to three months, so you'd want to protect your eyes when going out in the sun up until then, but that's about it."

"And I'll have twenty-twenty vision just like that?"

"Yes, just like that," Dad confirms.

Alfred makes a whistling noise between his lips. "Sounds good, but…how does it actually work? I'd be awake for it, right? Isn't there a way you can knock me out instead?"

Dad chuckles and squeezes his knee comfortingly, chasing away some of his nerves. "I'm afraid you have to be awake for it. However, you'll receive numbing eye drops and shouldn't feel anything. It's not as bad as you probably think it is."

Alfred swallows hard in fear but urges his father to continue. "What happens after you numb my eyes?"

"Well, a laser cuts your cornea to make a small flap in the eye—in the olden days, it was more commonly done by a blade…Don't give me that look. It's only on the very top surface of the eye. The flap is pulled back and then, you'll have to stare straight at a light while the laser lets out a series of beams to correct the cornea. Once that's done, I put the flap back into place, clean up any excess fluid and discharge, and that's it. Each eye takes about ten minutes."

"Dad, I'd be freaking out the whole time."

Dad tsks at him. "If you'd like, I can give you a small dose of medication to relax you before the procedure. That's usually enough to help even my most skittish and squeamish patients."

"You'd have to give me as many meds as possible. Wait, it doesn't involve any shots, does it?"

"No, no injections."

"You promise?"

"I promise. The medication comes in a pill. It'll make you woozy, however, and you'll need to be driven home. So, does this mean you want the surgery?"

Alfred takes in a deep breath, bites his lower lip, and finally says, "Y-Yeah, but just one more question. Once it's all over and done with, am I allowed to binge eat some ice cream and watch Netflix?"

"You won't be able to use your laptop, phone, or anything else with a bright screen that could irritate your eyes directly after the surgery. Furthermore, with the medication in your system, I doubt you'll have much of an appetite."

"I always have an appetite."

Dad frowns and squeezes his knee again. "I daresay this may be the one exception. Most likely, you're going to want to go straight home with me so you can rest and take a nap."

"A nap? Is that part of the aftercare, too?"

"Yes, taking a nap is recommended. Doctor's orders."

"Naps are great. I wish I could be ordered to take a nap more often, honestly," Alfred says with a strained smile. "So…Okay. Oh, god. When are we doing it? Hopefully, soon—before I have enough of a chance to change my mind."

"Pick a Friday afternoon so you can have the weekend to recover."

"Next Friday, then?" Alfred asks, checking his calendar on his phone with trembling fingers.

"That's fine. Have Stephanie give you an exact time, and tell her to schedule you as my last patient."

"I can't believe I'm agreeing to this."

"It'll be good for you, and it won't be as horrible as you expect it to be," Dad assures, cleaning up his supplies and putting away Alfred's chart.

"A-Are you gonna be with me the whole time?"

Dad ruffles his hair, smiles, and says, "Yes, you don't have to worry, my boy. I'll be there the entire time."

"I'm going to regret this."

* * *

Thursday night, Alfred doesn't get a wink of sleep. He's up at two o'clock in the morning, imagining a scalpel coming toward his eye and slicing it open as the world suddenly turns black. His heart races and throbs against his ribcage, and he paces around his bedroom, wishing Matthew was home right now and not in law school, learning whatever amazing things he's learning in order to someday change the world. It's at moments like these that he always counts on his twin to console him and to call him out for how dramatic he's being, but now that he's not here, he doesn't have anyone to panic with.

"Alfred? Are you still up?"

He snaps his head in the direction of the doorway and sees Papa in his pajamas and bathrobe, rubbing his eyes.

"Did I wake you up?"

" _Non_ , I was getting up to head to the bathroom. What's wrong, _mon lapin_? Worried about tomorrow?"

"Yeah, a little."

"There's nothing to fear," Papa says softly, coming over to lock him in an embrace. "You're going to be fine. It's natural to be nervous."

Alfred rests his head on his shoulder and mumbles, "Yeah, I know…I just can't stop thinking about it."

"Well, denying yourself sleep is only going to make you feel worse tomorrow, and if your father knew about this, he wouldn't approve. Try to go to bed."

"I'll try."

Papa nods, releases him from the hug, and adds, "Besides, I think you'll be in for a pleasant surprise."

"What surprise?"

"You'll see. _Bonne nuit_ , Alfred."

* * *

Despite the reassuring pep-talk, Alfred still doesn't fall asleep, and when he has to get up early on Friday morning to teach his classes, he's clammy and semi-hyperventilating but tries to play it cool.

"Mr. Jones? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, buddy. I'm fine, thanks," he tells one concerned student, trying to adjust the still broken glasses he's been wearing all week since he hasn't bothered ordering new ones in light of the surgery. Dad also gave him strict instructions not to wear any contact lenses, as they could affect his cornea before the surgery, which wouldn't be good.

"You don't look fine."

"I'm a little apprehensive, is all. I'm getting surgery today."

The boy's eyes widen into saucers as the rest of the students file out of the classroom once the bell rings. "What? Are you sick?"

"No, it's nothing like that. I'm getting laser surgery to fix my eyes so I don't have to wear glasses anymore."

"Ooooh, okay. Good luck, Mr. Jones!" the boy exclaims, clearly having no idea what Alfred is going on about. "Bye!"

"Bye!"

Alfred smiles to himself, feeling a little more reassured but not by much. Slowly, he gathers his things and makes the anxiety-packed walk to Dad's office yet again, limbs quivering and forehead drenched in sweat from nerves. When he rings the doorbell and Stephanie buzzes him in, he's terrified for a moment that he's going to throw up because his stomach suddenly really hurts, and he's having second thoughts.

"Hey, Alfred, honey. You ready for—? Oh, sweetie, relax. You look like you've seen a ghost," Stephanie says, reaching an arm across the check-in desk to pat his hand tenderly. "It's gonna be fine, dear. You're up next, okay? Have a seat."

He nods and sits before dabbing at some of the sweat above his brows with some tissues. He's being a big baby about this. It's nothing he can't handle. He's tough. He's brave. He's not going to be freaked out by some dumb laser. No problem. He shrugs out of his winter jacket, hangs it up on the coat rack in the corner, and purses his lips together as he sits down again.

"Alfred?" Dad calls out his name.

He doubles over and groans, suddenly unable to move. What was he thinking last week when he agreed to this? Can he still back out? Someone get him out of here.

He hears Stephanie say to Dad, "He's a little spooked, Dr. Kirkland."

As a result, Dad comes out into the waiting room to see for himself what kind of state he's in. He slumps his shoulders, approaches him cautiously, and crouches down in front of him, wincing a little as his knees protest. "Alfred, come along, love. You're going to be just fine," he coaxes him as he puts a firm hand on his shoulder and rubs circles into it. "Trust me, poppet. Stiff upper lip."

Then, Dad turns to Stephanie and asks, "Could you please get Alfred a cup of water?"

"Already on it."

A moment later, Dad is pressing a cup into his hands and encouraging him to take a few sips. "That's it…Come into the exam room. You'll be well taken care of, lad. Nothing's going to happen yet, okay?"

Alfred takes a stuttering breath, nods, and finally stands up, meekly following after Dad. He's told to sit in the familiar exam chair he's come to know quite well over the years. He knows, however, that this isn't where the actual procedure is going to take place—that'll happen in the room across from this one, where the truly scary tools await.

"Sit back and take a few deep breaths, lad," Dad says as he rummages around in a cabinet. Then, he's handing Alfred a light blue pill to take. "That's a small dose of diazepam. You should feel much better after taking it."

With a little hum of acknowledgment, Alfred tosses the pill into his mouth and swallows it with the cup of water he's still holding. It goes down easily, but he can feel it travel down his chest along with the gulp of water.

"There we are. It'll take a few minutes to start working. Just lean back and relax for now," Dad continues trying to ease him, rubbing his arm up and down in a gentle, rhythmic motion.

Suddenly, the door to the exam room gets nudged open, and a head pokes in.

"What did I miss?" the intruder asks.

Alfred looks up to see who it is, and he can't believe his eyes. Maybe that diazepam kicked in really fast and made him fall asleep because this can't be real.

"Matthew?" he asks, throat dry. "Is it really you?"

Dad laughs airily along with Matthew and says, "Yes, it's really him. Come on in, Matthew. I just gave him some medication for his anxiety, so he's going to be a little disoriented."

Matthew smiles and stands on the other side of Alfred, cooing down at him, "Aww, Al. You're gonna be loopy. That'll be fun to see."

As much as Alfred wants to whack Matthew over the head for teasing him, he _really_ wants to get up and give his brother a hug. It's been way too long since they've last seen each other—about seven months.

"Shuddup…God, I've missed you."

"I've missed you, too," Matthew says, rubbing his other arm. "When Dad told me you were getting eye surgery, I knew I'd have to come back home to make sure you'd be okay. Can't let you suffer alone, you know."

"You're the best, Mattie."

"I know. It's a gift," Matthew jokes quietly. "You don't have to be worried. Dad is experienced, and I'll be here, too."

"Even during the procedure?"

"Erm, for as long as Dad lets me stay. No offense, but I don't want to see your eye getting cut, so I'll probably have to wait outside at that point."

Alfred scoffs, but already, he can feel his body going a bit slack from the medicine. The shakes and jitters stop. For a second, he shuts his eyes, but Dad nudges him to keep him from falling asleep.

"You need to stay awake, love. You can sleep after the surgery," Dad tells him before leaving for just a second to call Stephanie to help set up the actual operating room. It's not an operating room in the traditional sense, of course. It's more of a better-equipped examination room. Still scary though.

Dad encourages him to stand up and wraps an arm around his waist to hold him steady before he starts guiding him out of the room and across the hall, speaking gently to him the whole time about how everything is going to be okay and how the surgery will be over before he knows it. Alfred can still walk, but he's starting to feel a little dizzy, and leaning on Dad helps him keep his center of balance. Matthew trails after them.

Dad gets him settled in a new exam chair in the next room, carefully helping him sit before reclining it all the way back so that Alfred is lying flat. It's not unlike sitting in a dentist's chair. His glasses also get taken off.

"Love, you're going to get the numbing drops for your eyes now. Hold still," Dad says, voice sounding a little warmer and fuzzier to his ears than usual.

He feels Dad's gloved hands pull his right eyelid back and administer the drops, and then, he does the same to his left eye.

"We'll give them a moment to start working. You're going to feel quite strange, but don't be alarmed."

"Yeah, don't worry about a thing," Matthew says, taking hold of his hand. "I wonder what it's like to have your eyes go numb. Must be pretty weird. Are you feeling okay for now?"

Alfred blinks a few times. His eyes are starting to tingle, but he's not in any pain, so it's bearable. His voice is also a little slurred. "Yeah…Just make Dad promise I'm not gonna go blind."

Dad scoffs and brushes away some hair from Alfred's forehead with a soothing hand. "You're not going to go blind, silly boy."

"Good, because I read online that—"

"No sentence that starts with those words ever ends well," Dad interjects, and Matthew laughs softly. "Don't think about anything. Focus on your breathing…"

Alfred swallows thickly and nods, but then, his body gives a shiver, and he says, "It's kinda cold in here."

A moment after he says that, he feels a small weight settle on his legs, and he realizes Dad is covering him up with a pastel green blanket. How typical that even the blankets at doctors' offices are clinical-looking and unappealing, but it does ward off some of the chilliness, and Dad pulls it up to his chest and tucks it in around him.

"Better?" he asks. "Unfortunately, we have to keep the room at a cool temperature because the equipment in here requires it."

"Yeah, thanks. It's better."

"Speaking of temperature—let's take your vitals."

Alfred lets out a little groan, but then a thermometer is being wedged under his tongue and his blood pressure is taken. Now, he's feeling really weird. He's pretty sure his eyes have almost totally gone numb, and even though he should be terrified about what's going to happen to him, he can't find the will or strength to be scared anymore. The diazepam must be working, too.

"All right, your temperature and blood pressure are normal," Dad announces before grasping his wrist for a moment and adding, "Your pulse is normal, too. I think we're ready to get started. Does it feel like the drops are working?"

"Uhh, I think so."

"Look up at me for a second," Dad instructs, producing his otoscope again and shining it once more into Alfred's eyes. "Excellent…Matthew, poppet, I think this is the point where you'll want to step outside. I'll call you when we're done."

It doesn't seem like Matthew wants to leave, but he doesn't have much of a choice in the matter, so he gives Alfred's hand one final squeeze and says, "I'll see you as soon as you're done. I'll text Papa and let him know you're okay for now."

"Mattie, if I start screaming, come and save me."

Matthew laughs and nods his head. "Okay, but don't give Dad a hard time either."

"Whatever. He'll just have to deal with it."

Dad lightly hits his shoulder and says, "Oi, behave."

And with that, Matthew disappears and closes the door, and now, Alfred's alone in this freezing room with Dad, praying he'll live to see another day after this inevitable torture. He shifts a little to get himself more comfortable, wiggles his toes and fingers underneath the blanket, and braces himself for the worst.

Dad sits in a chair directly behind the head of the recliner so that he's hovering right above Alfred's face, and Alfred is suddenly immensely relieved to know that he's going to be so close to him during the procedure and not behind a screen in another room or something. Dad's nearby body warmth and the rustle of his white coat as he moves is quite reassuring. Plus, being able to look up into his eyes and know he's not going anywhere makes everything less nerve-wracking.

"Do you want me to talk you through everything as it's happening, or would you rather not know?"

"Talk me through it."

Dad nods obligingly and suddenly, Alfred feels something damp against his skin. "I'm just cleaning up the area around your eyes now. We're going to start with your right eye. You're going to feel me placing what's called a lid speculum in each eye—all it does is keep your eyes open throughout the procedure. It shouldn't hurt, but it may be a feel a little odd. I'm putting them in now…Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Still alive," Alfred mumbles, now incapable of blinking but otherwise okay.

Dad smiles down at him reassuringly and starts setting up a device that gets brought into Alfred's field of view and is placed directly over his eye. "Now I'm going to use what's called a laser keratome, which is going to cut your cornea, as we discussed last week. But first, I'm going to place a clear plastic plate over your eye—this is often the most uncomfortable part of the procedure. You're going to feel some pressure, and your vision may darken or dim for just a moment, which is completely normal. Your vision may also get clearer and blurrier again throughout the procedure, but that's nothing to worry about. I'll be right here the whole time, making sure everything is in order. Ready?"

"When doctors say there's gonna be pressure, that usually means it's going to hurt," Alfred points out.

"It won't hurt," Dad says convincingly. "Hold still for me. I'm going to start."

Alfred takes a breath and a second later, he understands what Dad means by pressure. It feels like someone is pushing down hard on his eye, and he wants to squirm away, but Dad's right, it doesn't technically hurt. That said, it's weird as hell. His vision goes almost black for a second, and he whimpers, but it's over in under a minute. Dad has a hand on either side of his head, holding him securely in place so he can't move away from the machine.

"You're doing well…Still feeling okay?"

"Yeah."

"Good," Dad says, and then one of his gloved hands comes into view. He's holding some kind of pointy metal object, but Alfred can't make out what it is because his vision is too blurry and clouded with liquid since his eyes are tearing up. He tries to stay calm.

"I'm just peeling back the flap that the laser cut. Everything's fine…Okay, love, now you're going to see a light in front of you. That's the spot I want you to look at while the laser corrects your vision. You're going to have to look at it for about a full minute, and you might feel some pressure again. You'll also hear some clicking noises, but don't pay them any mind…Ready?"

"I guess so."

"Okay, look at the light…Excellent," Dad reassures him throughout, holding his head still once more. The warm touch and that diazepam from earlier are enough to keep him from panicking. "Just a little longer…Well done. Now, I'm going to clean up your eye and place the flap back so the area can begin to heal."

A plastic, brush-like tool gets put against his eye, followed by the metal pointy thing again. After a minute or two, Dad announces that his right eye is all done—now, he's just going to do the same thing to the left one.

"That's it?" Alfred asks, surprised that the surgery is already half-finished. "My vision is still kinda blurry. Better, than usual, but still blurry. The surgery didn't work."

"Be patient, your vision isn't going to be perfect immediately. It'll get better as you recover. Just hold still and we'll finish up with your left eye. You're going to experience the same exact sensations you did the first time around—some pressure, temporary vision loss, and fluctuating levels of blurriness."

It's not nearly as scary the second time, and ten minutes later, Dad announces the surgery is over, and he's pulling the intimidating machine away from Alfred's face and taking the eyelid speculums out of his eyes so he can blink again. Then, his father stares down at him and into his hazy field of view.

"You survived," Dad tells him with a teasing smile. "Wasn't that easy? How do you feel?"

"I feel fine, surprisingly enough," Alfred says, but he can hear that his voice is still quite slurred from the medication.

Oh, no, Dad is rummaging around for something again.

"I'm going to put these clear plastic shields over your eyes. Once the numbing drops wear off, your eyes are going to itch, burn, and possibly hurt a little, so these shields need to be on so you don't rub the area and disrupt the healing process. If I know you like I think I do, you're going to want to scratch your eyes immediately, and we can't have any of that," Dad says sternly, placing one of the shields on his right eye and securing it with medical tape. Then, he covers his left eye as well.

"I feel like a dog that's getting put in the cone of shame," Alfred grumbles, but he lets Dad do what he has to without further complaint. "Now what?"

"Now, you rest," Dad orders firmly, slowly adjusting the recliner again so that Alfred is now in a sitting position. "Don't stand up yet. You may still feel unsteady from the diazepam until it wears off in a few hours, and I don't want you tripping over your own feet. I'll help you get up in a moment. I need to take care of a few matters before we leave. In the meantime, I'll invite Matthew to come in and watch you."

Then, Dad disappears from his side, and Alfred has a childish urge to call him to come back, missing the spot of warmth that was by his head this whole time. Thankfully, he isn't alone for long, because, as promised, Matthew appears no more than a minute later and stands over him protectively.

"Hey," Mattie whispers gently, looking pretty concerned. "How're you doing?"

"I'm okay…Thanks for flying all the way out here just for this."

"Don't mention it. I'm happy to be here," Matthew assures him, messing up his hair playfully. "Besides, you look pretty funny with those shields on your eyes."

Alfred frowns and swats at Matthew's arm, but his brother isn't fazed and continues to chuckle.

"I'm just teasing. I'm glad you're okay," Mattie says. "Did it hurt?"

"No, but Dad said my eyes are probably gonna hurt later."

"That sucks. Can you see?"

"Yeah, but things are still a bit blurry."

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Four. I'm not _that_ blind," Alfred huffs, offended. He tries to sit up a little more to prove he's still tough and okay, but his muscles don't comply, and he ends up almost sliding out of the chair and ending up on the floor.

Fortunately, Matthew saves him by looping his arms under his armpits and dragging him upward. "Whoa. Take it easy. You're supposed to stay put."

"I'm fine," Alfred grumbles, but he knows that's a lie. He's feeling weak, and he could really use that nap he was promised last week.

Before he can have another near spill or accident, Dad returns, white coat now off and replaced with his winter coat. He's also got his work bag slung over his shoulder and is holding the jacket Alfred came in with.

"All right, poppet. Let's get you home," he says, and then, Dad is dressing him in his jacket, helping him get his arms through the pesky sleeves before zipping it up as far as it will go. He also plonks some of those ugly black sunglasses Alfred has been dreading onto his nose.

Once that's taken care of, Dad snakes one arm around his waist and gets him to stand on his somewhat wobbly feet again. "I only gave you five milligrams, you know. It's a good thing I didn't opt for ten."

Matthew laughs and says, "He's a lightweight, Dad."

"Am not!" Alfred immediately shouts, wishing the slur in his voice would finally stop embarrassing him.

Dad shakes his head at both of them, and leads Alfred out of the room, stopping briefly in the waiting area to ask Stephanie if she could kindly take care of locking up the office for him, and then, they're out to the parking lot, where the family car is waiting for them. He helps Alfred rest across the row of backseats, and then, he gets in the driver's seat while Matthew rides shotgun.

Alfred wants to say he remembers something after that, but he doesn't because before Dad has even backed the car out of the lot, he's fast asleep, soothed by the hum of the engine and the radio quietly playing in the background. However, his nap doesn't last long, because before he knows it, they're home, and Dad is gently rousing him by tapping on his shoulder and carding a hand through his hair.

"We're home, love. Let's get you inside so you can continue sleeping," his father tells him, tugging on his arm.

Only half-awake, Alfred walks with Dad's support to the front door, and Papa lets them in, hysterical with worry when he sees how out-of-sorts he looks.

" _Mon Dieu_! _Mon chou_ , how do you feel?" Papa immediately asks him, fretting and fussing as he takes off his jacket and presses a careful hand to his face. He inspects his eyes once Dad removes the dark sunglasses.

"He's fine—just lethargic, which is to be expected from the medication I gave him. Some rest is in order," Dad informs Papa, still keeping a strong grip on Alfred. "Matthew, can you get his bed ready?"

Matthew doesn't need to be asked twice. He goes jogging upstairs a second later, getting straight to work.

Meanwhile, Alfred yawns and reaches up habitually to rub at his eyes, but Dad yanks his hand back down.

"No, no. Don't touch anything, understood? You have shields on your eyes for a reason. Come, let's put you to bed," Dad chides him, escorting him up the stairs.

Before they reach the landing at the top, Alfred hears Papa say from behind them, "Matthew and I will put dinner together for you! We'll make your favorite, okay?"

"Thanks," Alfred says back, a little winded. He sighs when he's finally back in his room, and Dad makes sure he gets safely into bed and doesn't knock his head on anything.

Mattie pulls the covers over him, fluffs his pillows, and asks, "Do you need something else?"

"No, I'm okay, bro."

"Are you feeling any pain?" Dad asks next, pulling the curtains closed in order to dim the room.

"No."

He doesn't mind being fussed over like this. It's actually nice.

"Rest and call me if you need anything or don't feel well. I'll be nearby, and I'll be checking in on you."

"Mm-hmm…Thanks, guys."

He starts drifting off again, and he feels Dad smoothing back his hair before he leaves with Matthew in tow. They leave the bedroom door ajar, and Alfred lets the world slip away from him, feeling at peace. Maybe this will mark the end of his vision problems, and hopefully, he'll never have to visit Dad's office again except for the occasional checkup. That's a comforting thought, and with that, he gives in to his drowsiness, no longer worried about lasers or scalpels. Instead, he's rather excited about what his glasses-free life will be like.

* * *

It's nightfall when he rouses, and he knows this because he reads the time off of the clock mounted on the wall above his desk.

Wait.

He's never been able to read the clock without his glasses before. He blinks a few times, and sure enough, he can see all of the things he's never been able to see without the aid of his frames. It's like he's wearing a pair of contact lenses, except, he knows he's not really wearing any. It's kind of surreal, honestly. He's spent over twenty years of his life wearing glasses, and now, the world is finally crystal clear once more. It's like seeing everything in a whole new light.

That said, his eyes itch like _crazy_ , and they're kind of stinging and burning, too, like he's been staring at the sun. He wishes he could scratch them, but after years of being lectured by Dad on various illnesses, he knows that itchiness after some kind of trauma or operation is usually a good thing—it's a sign of healing.

His bedroom door inches open, and Dad appears, checking on him. When he sees he's awake, he smiles softly and asks, "How are you feeling, lad?"

"I…I can see a bunch of stuff I couldn't see before."

"That's excellent," Dad says approvingly before sitting down on the edge of Alfred's bed. "Let me have a look at you. Stare up at the ceiling for me...Hmm, everything looks as it should for now. Tomorrow, we'll take off the shields and I'll examine your eyes more thoroughly. Until then, you should try resting your vision as much as possible."

Alfred grins. "I can see the wrinkles in your forehead better than ever before."

"Cheeky brat," Dad snaps, but it lacks any bite. "You missed dinner. Would you like me to bring you something to eat?"

"Dinner in bed? Sounds good."

"The diazepam should have worn off by now. You don't have to stay in bed."

"But I want to milk this for all it's worth, so I'll still take dinner in bed, anyway," Alfred jokes, feeling a lot more energetic and more like himself already.

Dad gives him a _look_ but lets him act sick and helpless for now. He's earned it for at least one day. "Very well, Your Majesty. Is there anything else your humble servant can do for you?"

"I missed your sarcasm while I was at school," Alfred notes before adding, "and yeah, actually, can you get me my fuzzy socks—the ones with the reindeer on them? Oh, and while you're at it, it'd be nice if you could grade some of the kids' homework assignments for me. I gotta give them back on Monday, and I shouldn't strain my eyes, right?"

Dad's unamused. "You're testing your luck, my boy. You can grade them yourself on Sunday."

"But if I start on Sunday, I'll never finish in time."

Dad sighs peevishly and stands up. "Fine, how about I read a _few_ of the papers? Matthew can do the rest."

"Wow, I can't believe you just dragged Mattie into this. You're making him do extra work when he came all the way out here to get away from school stuff? Father of the year."

Flustered, Dad turns slightly red in the face and angrily shouts, "Fine! I'll do it! Happy?"

 _Hah, it's good to know he can still trick Dad into doing what he wants._ _He's all too predictable._

"Nah, it's okay, I'll ask Mattie to do some of it. You're busy."

"No, I'm doing it, and that's my final decision," Dad decides petulantly, walking over to Alfred's dresser to find those fuzzy reindeer socks. Once he's got them, he tosses them on the bed and storms out of the room, muttering something to himself about how he's "too old to deal with these antics" and "I thought I was done raising children."

Alfred muffles a snort of laughter against his pillow.

It's good to be home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Here's the last little part of this fic. I hope you enjoyed it, and Happy Christmas Eve if you celebrate Christmas!

* * *

Arthur has a newfound appreciation for teachers.

If he has to read one more poorly structured and grammatically incorrect assignment regarding Theodore Roosevelt's presidency, the neurons in his brain may disintegrate. Of course, while he himself was never the most motivated student among his peers (especially during his adolescence), he doesn't remember his own grammar ever being this dreadful.

He drops the red pen Alfred granted him on the kitchen table and gets up to brew some more tea—he's on his fourth cup now—because if he doesn't caffeinate himself, he's never going to get through the remainder of these papers.

He imagines the frustration he feels while reading the prose of these thirteen-year-olds isn't unlike how most people might feel if they were asked to read _The British Journal of Ophthalmology—_ it may as well be written in another language.

Alfred doesn't get paid enough for this, clearly.

It's semi-bizarre for Arthur to have to picture Alfred at the head of a classroom of impressionable pre-teens, flourishing a piece of chalk and dishing out inspirational words of wisdom. In many ways, Arthur still sees him as a child, much to Alfred's chagrin. It took twenty-two painstaking years to raise the boys, and, though they may not have realized it yet, they have a lot of growing up left to do. The only difference now is that they'll be doing the rest of this growing up on their own, for the most part.

Arthur thought that once his children turned into adults, he'd be elated, and while it is rewarding to see them start to fly out of the nest in order to begin their own lives, he also feels a great loss for all of the time that has passed. Where has it gone? What happened to the family trips, the mornings spent having breakfast together, the lectures given past curfew, and the days when Alfred and Matthew still needed him and Francis? It's been hard to accept that soon enough, he and Francis will not be the most important people in the boy's lives. They will likely have families of their own—children of their own—and Arthur and Francis will inevitably get put on the backburner until old age takes them away from this world.

He misses being depended on, and he wonders if Francis feels the same way.

 _"Dad!"_

He rolls his aching wrist in small circles to rid himself of his carpal tunnel syndrome from grading papers for hours and smiles. Okay, so maybe the boys aren't entirely independent just yet. Alfred still lives under his and Francis's roof, Matthew needs help paying for law school, and it's likely going to take them both a few more years before they can fully support themselves. That means the nest isn't completely empty, and Arthur can content himself with knowing that he's still needed, not as much as he once was, but enough to make him feel less abandoned.

"One moment!" he calls back to Alfred, counting the number of papers he still has to at least skim—twelve. That's twelve too many.

" _Daaaaaad!"_

"Coming!"

He happily leaves the stack of papers and climbs up the stairs to Alfred's room, where the boy is still lying in bed, acting as though it's the end of the world.

 _"Daaaaaaad."_

"I'm here," Arthur sighs as he reaches the doorway. "What is it?"

"My eyes itch and burn like crazy."

"I'll bring you some eye drops that should help with the pain. Also, you might feel better if you got out of bed and walked around for a bit instead of focusing on the discomfort."

Alfred frowns and glares at him, but it only serves to make him look more pathetic, considering he still has his eye shields on. "You're being so insensitive."

"Perhaps, but you're being dramatic."

"No, I'm not. You have a bad bedside manner. You should work on that."

"Oh, if I'm doing such a poor job, I suppose you don't need my help after all. I'll just be on my way, then—"

"Wait!"

Arthur smirks, stops mid-step, and raises his brows at the boy. If only his students could see him now. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry. I need you or else my eyes will fall out of my head or something and who's gonna help me? I can't trust Papa or even Mattie. They'll just panic and let me die."

Hearing his name being mentioned, Matthew strolls down the hallway and stops beside Arthur, joining the conversation. "What'd I miss?"

"Your brother is being a difficult patient, that's all," Arthur says, and as he's speaking, he notices how bloodshot Alfred's eyes have become—they're itchy because they're dry. He'll need to bring some lubricating drops along with the antibiotics. While he gets some amusement out of teasing Alfred for being over-the-top about all of this, he acknowledges that at least some of the boy's complaints are legitimate, and he's obviously not going to feel completely well until another day or two.

"Typical," Matthew says. "Come on, Al. Wanna go play some chess?"

Intent on staying sullen, Alfred grumbles, "I hate chess."

"Well, what else are you gonna do for the rest of the day? Stay up here and feel sorry for yourself?"

"Hey! You're just as insensitive as Dad. Now, I know where you get it from."

But with a little more persuading on Matthew's part, Alfred gets out of bed and agrees to go down to the living room to play chess. As Matthew sets up the board, Arthur gets Alfred to lie down on the couch for a moment to give him several eye drops, and they must work because Alfred stops complaining about the pain in his eyes a few minutes later and gets more invested in his game against Matthew.

And once Arthur's sure Alfred is being sufficiently entertained, he goes back to the kitchen to have his tea and finish reading those hideous papers. For reasons beyond him, he doesn't have the strength to give any student lower than a C plus, even though he knows a good third of them deserve a D or F. Maybe it's because deep, deep, _deep_ down, he's concerned that if he gives the students such low grades, one or two of them are bound to cry, and well, damn it all to hell, but he doesn't want that on his conscience. Maybe Alfred has more willpower than he does in that regard.

When he finally finishes grading everything, he neatly organizes the papers alphabetically and places the pile on the coffee table in the living room, where the boys are on their third round of chess. Naturally, it seems as though Matthew has been winning thus far.

Alfred glances at the papers and grins. "Thanks, Dad. You didn't have to do all of that. I appreciate it, though."

"Don't mention it."

Briefly, Alfred flips through the assignments to check over his work. He pauses a few times and frowns, creasing his forehead in confusion. "Did you curve this or something? This kid didn't even write five sentences and you gave him a C plus."

"Ahh, yes, well…" Arthur rubs the back of his neck awkwardly and looks at the ceiling, trying to formulate a reasonable explanation. "Quality over quantity, I suppose."

"He didn't even name a single one of Theodore Roosevelt's policies…Dad, you don't have to feel bad about giving a kid a low grade. No one wants to do it, obviously, but letting them get away with giving in homework they had a week to do but probably wrote on the bus ride to school isn't going to cut it either," Alfred explains, sounding reasonable and mature suddenly. "Man, the kids would love having you as a teacher."

"I…I apologize," Arthur mumbles because what else can he say?

"Nah, don't worry about it. It's still really helpful. I'll just have Mattie correct some of the grades. He's heartless," Alfred jokes, and Matthew gives him a shove in the ribs. "He beat me twice at chess already and keeps kicking me while I'm down—won't let up enough to let me win even once. Don't let his falsely sweet face fool you, Dad. I always told you he was the bad kid of the family. He gets away with everything because no one ever suspects him of doing anything wrong, but everyone knows it's the quiet ones you've gotta watch out for."

"Watching out for the loudmouths is important, too," Matthew remarks, and this time, Alfred's the one who shoves him in retaliation.

"Puh-lease. We all know I'm the favorite, especially since I started living here again," Alfred teases.

Matthew rolls his eyes. "You wish. Distance builds fondness. I'm the favorite. Right, Dad?"

"No," Arthur says firmly, just as he always does whenever this topic of discussion comes up. "Your papa and I love you both equally."

"Lies!" Alfred accuses, "and I can prove it, too."

At that, Alfred twists his head around and shouts, "Papa! I've got a question for you!"

Francis appears a minute later, stepping out of the laundry room, hair pulled back and tied into a bun—Arthur hates it when he does that. He needs a haircut but is too emotionally-invested in his hair to let it get trimmed.

"What's your question, _mon chou_?"

"Who's your favorite?" Alfred asks him.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. Who's your favorite person in this house?"

Francis puts down the laundry basket in his hands, saunters forward, and wraps his arms around Arthur's waist against Arthur's will. "The person I've been married to for over two decades now."

Alfred and Matthew both make a face, unamused.

"What? It's the truth," Francis smiles, pecking Arthur's cheek. "Isn't that right, _mon amour_?"

Arthur slumps his shoulders and begrudgingly says, "You mean to say you don't loathe me? I'm flabbergasted."

"Watch and learn, boys," Francis emphasizes, leaning his head on Arthur's shoulder and continuing his displays of affection. "One day, you might find true love like ours."

Arthur snorts, trying not to laugh. Their love has been anything but pristine. In fact, it has taken a great deal of work to keep it from crumbling and turning into shambles.

"You know, the kids ask me all the time if I'm married and have kids of my own. I always say yes," Alfred notes. "I like letting them think I've got my life together."

"But you don't have your life together," Matthew points out, teasing his brother again.

"Well, neither do you, bro."

"You're both young. You have time," Francis assures them, releasing Arthur momentarily to initiate a group hug with the boys. "I'm so lucky to have a beautiful family, and I wouldn't change it for anything."

Did Francis have more than one glass of wine today? He's being oddly sentimental, and Arthur doesn't know whether he should do something about it or not.

"Are you feeling all right, Francis?"

"Of course! Can't I be happy to be here with all of you?" Francis asks. "Must you be so suspicious of me all of the time?"

"I'm not suspecting you of anything, I just—"

"Hush and let me hug my family," Francis huffs.

Well, that answers Arthur's question from earlier about whether or not the man misses raising the boys—he does, clearly. Otherwise, he wouldn't be trapped between the frog and the boys, enduring a hug he didn't ask for.

And when they go to bed later that night and Arthur gets shaken awake because Alfred's eyes are bothering him again, he will get up, give him his eye drops again, and remind himself that he and Francis aren't quite done with being parents just yet.

Then, he will climb back into bed and settle himself against Francis's back, and Francis will turn around and ask a one-worded question, "Okay?"

"It's okay," Arthur will reassure him.

"Alfred can see?"

"Yes, and he won't be breaking any more pairs of glasses."

"Good," Francis sighs and chuckles at the same time. "I'm glad he listened to you in the end and agreed to the surgery. You were right—it was for the best."

"I'm always right," Arthur brags, smiling, "and I'm sure Alfred knows that as well."

"…Do you think the boys would be willing to go out for breakfast tomorrow morning? It's been a while since we've all been together like this."

"I don't see why not. You're being terribly clingy toward them lately."

"You noticed?"

"It's hard not to," Arthur murmurs, and now that they're alone, he allows himself to wrap his own arms around Francis.

"They grew up in the blink of an eye."

"I daresay it was longer than that," Arthur chuckles.

"And soon, they're going to leave their papa in the dust."

"No, they won't. Don't worry, they'll still be a calling us whenever there's a problem they don't know how to fix."

Francis sighs again. "I know, but it won't be the same."

"They'll bring us grandchildren in due time, I'm sure…And the best part about grandchildren is that they won't be _our_ children, so we can visit and leave them at our leisure. They won't be our responsibility, thank goodness."

Francis laughs and nods his head. "Don't be so quick to say they won't be your responsibility. Those hypothetical grandchildren of ours might be plagued with poor eyesight as well."

Arthur groans quietly and says, "I can already feel the inevitable migraine I'll have as a result."

"Sorry for bringing it up. Let's go to sleep," Francis apologizes with another short laugh.

"Yes, let's."

There's plenty left to look forward to.


End file.
